


that's what a year-long headache does to you

by plinys



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22021198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: “I guess I finally made it to Reno,” Richie says, after his opening bit. “You all fucking missed me, right?”[Or: Richie goes on and finishes his tour after the events of IT Ch 2, with a series of recordings Eddie made for him back when they were kids to keep him company.]
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 31
Kudos: 181





	that's what a year-long headache does to you

“So I recently discovered these recordings that my childhood friend made for me when we were kids,” Richie stares out into the audience. The way they wait on his every word. Ready for the punchline to drop, for Richie to make some  _ jokes _ , but he’s going off script here.

More than usual… 

Writing his own shit is harder than it looks, and he knows that this crowd of strangers aren’t his therapists, that they don’t care about what demons keep Richie up at night. What horrors he’s lived through and seen. The things that he can’t even begin to explain to any normal person.

He pauses too long, can see them shifting in anxiety, so Richie takes a deep breath and says. “And I don’t know if any of you were ever popular in middle school - if you were,  _ fuck you  _ by the way, only monsters are popular in middle school - but as you might have guessed I  _ was  _ not.” 

And there it is.

The laughter.

They can all breathe again. 

“So you got to start by picturing me, the least popular kid in the world, coke bottle glasses, my dad’s old shirts, oh and super fucking  _ gay  _ so if there was ever a chance of me being popular - no fucking way right…” 

Richie pauses. 

“I guess, basically what I am right now, but like a foot shorter.” 

Another laugh. 

“Alright, now that you can imagine what a fucking loser I was, let’s set the scene-” 

  
  


*

_ “Fuck, is this thing on? I…. I think this is recording. Well, if it is, hi, I guess? This is fucking awkward, but I read this article in the news about these kids leaving a time capsule and letters to the future selves or whatever the fuck, but… This summer has been crazy, you know? And now I’m stuck in here while the rest of you are having fun because my mom put me on house arrest but I mean… Worth it right, and summer is over in a few weeks so.  _

_ Hi, future Richie, it’s Eddie.  _

_ I know technically you’re supposed to record these things for your own future self, but we nearly died this summer and I guess I kind of keep waiting for things to go bad again, so in case I die, here’s the recording or whatever fuck.  _

_ Or you know, once we graduate high school and I find these old cassettes again we can just laugh at how fucking dumb we were, doesn’t that sound fun? Yeah, shut up, I know it’s lame, but I’m bored and we’ve got one more week until school starts again so I’m just going to record a bunch of dumb shit, and you, future Richie, are going to be stuck listening to this shit.  _

_ So enjoy. _

_ Okay, fuck, I think my mom is coming, I’ll talk to you later.” _

  
  


*

“The reviews are in, Rich, they’re good real good,” his agent calls him, still back in LA. Not able to make it out to Vegas for the first show of his new tour. Not that Richie had really wanted the company. “You should be out partying, celebrate your success.” 

“Yeah, I’ll go out later,” Richie says.

Even though it’s a lie.

He’s in Vegas, should go out, gamble, drink, forget all the things that have been bothering him for a little bit. But he can’t. So instead he stays here, in his hotel room, with a bottle of far too expensive wine, and the comfort of a fuzzy bathrobe. 

“Just don’t stay out too late,” his agent replies. “You’re flying to Reno tomorrow.” 

“Right, yeah.” 

It’s absent minded.

He isn’t paying attention.

Not that his agent really seems to care, rattling on about other unimportant shit, reviews and press people and Richie tunes it all out. Focuses on pouring himself another drink and staring out the hotel window to the flashing lights of a city that he can’t bring himself to explore.

Only tuning back in when his agent says - “Fuck, Rich, we should’ve let you write your own shit early.” 

“Yeah, you fucking should have,” Richie agrees, a bit too quick, a bit too bitter.

He knows it’s harsh, but fuck it has been years since he was able to say his own material. Getting back into the swing of writing his own jokes had been hard, but there was no memorizing someone else’s lines anymore. No pretending to be a person he isn’t so that a crowd would like him.

Now his  _ Dirty Little Secret  _ is on display.

And it’s not so  _ dirty  _ anymore. 

Richie doesn’t give a fuck about the reviews, about what any of the critics say, because the audience had laughed instead of booing him off the stage, and when it came down to it, that was all that really mattered. Fuck the money, and the fame. 

He’d quit it all if he could. 

He almost did before.

But something drew him back, kept him from giving up on everything he’d worked so hard for over the last few years. 

His agent doesn’t reply, the lull in the conversation stretches awkwardly. 

Until Richie says, “Fuck, hey, I gotta go.” 

“Take care of yourself tonight. We need you to actually show up in Reno this time,” is all the reply he gets before the phone hangs up on him. 

“I will,” Richie says. 

Even though there’s nobody there to hear his answer.

He pours himself another drink, the last of the wine, and picks up the phone again to call a different number. 

It takes three rings before the call goes to voicemail. Richie’s voice only shakes a little when he says, “I talked about you tonight, in front of a whole crowd of people, and everyone thought it was hilarious so thanks for being a huge fucking loser when we were kids, I guess?” 

  
  


*

“I got you a coffee!” 

His assistant holds the coffee out for Richie the second he arrives in Reno. He’s a good kid, recent college graduate, reminds Richie a bit of what a young Eddie might have looked like, had he grown a mustache, and been openly gay since he was a teenager. Richie would be lying if he said that wasn’t part of the reason why he hired the kid as his assistant. 

Richie takes the offered coffee, even though what he really wants is a much stronger drink. 

He says as much out loud, a big fucking mistake, because then the kid is frowning at him, “Have you talked to your therapist lately?” 

And fuck, Richie knows what they’re all thinking.

The articles are still out there, rumors of him having gone to rehab, of having a mental breakdown on stage. 

“I’m fine,” Richie replies. 

Taking a drink of his coffee.

It’s not enough.

“If you say so, boss!”

  
  


*

“I guess I finally made it to Reno,” Richie says, after his opening bit.

Remembering all too well why he missed his last Reno shows. He couldn’t tell them the truth, that he was fighting an evil shape shifting alien clown from outer space, and then had to spend a week in the hospital recovering from that whole mess. 

There’s an official story.

A friend’s passing, a funeral, a reunion, a car accident - they’re honestly all just lucky nobody has tried to look too hard into their excuses. 

He’s not sure they would hold up if people did. 

“You all fucking missed me, right?”

There’s laughter, some shouts of  _ yes  _ or  _ no _ , and Richie grins out at the audience. Let’s their enthusiasm fuel him. 

“Well, I told you fuckers, I’d eventually make it here, and I never break a promise.” 

*

_ “You’re moving… _

_ Fuck you, Richie. _

_ You’re moving and you didn’t think, ‘oh hey this might be something nice to tell my best friends’, first Bev and then Bill and now you… _

_ Or I guess, you first, but Bill at least fucking told us his parents were planning on moving before the for sale signed showed up on his front porch.  _

_ I… I hate this and you’ll never heard these recordings because you’re moving, but I cried, like a huge fucking baby right, I mean I waited until I got home and I cried and now I’m all stuffy and my mom’s probably going to keep me home from school tomorrow because she’ll be convinced I caught the flu, which means one less day we get to hang out before you’re gone and… _

_ Fuck you. _

_ Why didn’t you just fucking say something?” _

*

He gets voicemail again.

Of course he does, what else did he really expect.

But he’s trying not to drink everything that’s in the hotel mini fridge because his assistant keeps looking like he wants to put Richie in AA, and Richie can’t handle that. 

“This is a distraction, okay,” Richie says, “I know I should just call someone that will actually pick up, but fuck Eds, I fucking miss you. I always fucking missed you, even when I couldn’t remember you.” 

  
  


*

“You’ve always been weird, Richie,” his dad says. “Doesn’t make us love you less.”

“Sorry for not calling for four fucking years.” 

“You were busy,” his dad replies. 

It’s an excuse. 

He’s offering him a way out. 

His whole family came to his show in Seattle. His mom cried a little after, hugged him a bit too tight. Words had spilled out, half statements and half truths, and  _ Oh hey, I almost died a few months ago _ , and his mother had cried and made him breakfast for dinner at midnight like he was a kid again. And his sister had stayed up late with him and talked about how her kids loved watching the shitty animated movies that he was in. And Richie didn’t know how to deal with it. 

Still doesn’t now the next morning, when he’s sitting in the living room pretending to watch the football game with his dad, while his nephews run around the room playing pirates or some shit. 

A part of him wishes that he’d gotten a hotel, but coming back here… 

This is good. 

Makes him wish he hadn’t spent so much time locking himself away, refusing to go back home. He remembers why, remembers being angry that his parents had moved him across the country as a kid, remembers being afraid to come out, and remembers how acting like his family couldn’t stand him had been one of the  _ bits  _ that his ghostwriter had always insisted that Richie’s audiences would relate to. 

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Richie says. Gesturing to the game, but meaning so much more. 

“The Packers have the ball.”

“That doesn’t mean shit to me.” 

“Shit,” one of his nephews echo, and Richie groans.

“Don’t say that where you mom can hear, she’ll fucking skin me alive!” 

His dad laughs at that. 

The twins continue to repeat  _ shit  _ and then laugh about it. 

The words, “Sorry, I never gave you grandkids,” are out of his mouth before Richie can stop them. 

His dad just shrugs. “Richie, we’ve known you were gay since you were eight years old, I didn’t expect any grandkids from you.” 

“Oh fuck, good cause - wait, since I was  _ eight _ ?” 

But his dad’s eyes are on the game, because there’s a homerun or some shit, and even the little kids are cheering. And Richie still doesn’t know the first thing about sports, but he claps like he’s supposed to. And lets the topic turn back to the game instead. 

  
  


*

“You know what I don’t fucking get,” Richie pauses, builds up some anticipation. “Why do people cheer when they’re watching sports at home? It’s not like they can fucking hear you through the tv!”

His assistant doesn’t laugh. 

Just smiles at him, a little fake and says, “Is that a new bit, you’re trying out? It’s good.”

“No, it’s not,” Richie says. “You don’t have to lie to me just because I pay you.”

The kid’s smile falters just a bit. “Okay, yeah, it’s shit.” 

*

_ “You said you were going to write.  _

_ I mean, I knew you wouldn’t. _

_ Bev didn’t write. _

_ Bill wrote once but… _

_ I guess I expected you of all people to write. I keep going to the mailbox hoping that I’ll have a letter from you or even a fucking postcard, right now, I would kill for a postcard, but there’s nothing. I know you’re in Portland and that it’s only a few hours drive and I’ve got my permit now so I could do the drive if I really wanted to. _

_ Ben even offered to come with me, said we could use his mom’s car, but, fuck. _

_ I don’t even know where you live. _

_ I can’t wander all of Portland being like ‘Yes hello, have you seen this boy, he’s about fifteen, can’t see for shit, and thinks all of his bad jokes are funny’ and also by the way, ‘I may have been in love with him since I was a kid but never fucking said anything because you know….’ Fuck. _

_ It’s a good thing you won’t actually ever hear these, right? _

_ Fuck. _

_ Why didn’t you ever write?  _

_ You fucking promised Richie.” _

  
  


*

He’s supposed to be writing. 

What was the point of a long flight if he wasn’t using it to write?

Nobody told him that writing his own jokes was going to be so fucking hard. 

Actually, that’s not true.

His manager had. 

Insisted that there was a reason they had been paying for a ghost writer for years, because while Richie had stage presence and plenty of talent to do all the fucking voices and impressions in the world, he needed someone to write the  _ punch  _ line. 

It used to be easy before, back when he was a kid, before he ended up bright eyed in New York and so blissfully naive to how the industry worked. Back then he had thought that if he could even just make a few people laugh that it would have been worth it all. 

If he could make just  _ one  _ person laugh… 

Then it would all be worth it… 

*

“I’m fine,” he says. 

It’s a lie.

They both know it. 

“I’ll be fine,” he corrects. 

Bev sighs softly over the phone line. She calls him to check in on him occasionally. They all do really, take shifts or some shit, to see how their lost cause is doing. But Bev does it the most. She’s a bit of a worrier, though she won’t admit it. Claims that it has something to do with what she saw in the deadlights before, what would have happened if he hadn’t come back to Derry.

Sometimes he wonders if going out the way she had seen wouldn’t have been the worst thing ever. Other days, remembering her words is enough to keep himself from going for another drink. 

“You have to stay alive until New York, okay, baby,” Bev says, soft and sweet. “Ben and I bought tickets to your show.” 

*

“This is Edward Kaspbrak, you’ve called me at a bad time, please leave a message after the-”

He hangs up before the beep. 

Stares out at the overcrowded airport. 

So many fucking people, and he still feels so fucking lonely. 

It doesn’t matter how many people there are, not when there’s only  _ one  _ person he wants to be with. Fuck this fucking tour. 

He puts his airpods in and turns on one of the recordings, just to hear Eddie’s voice one more time. 

*

_ “So, fun fact, I’m drunk.  _

_ I mean, a little bit, I don’t fucking know one of Ben’s cool new football friends made this mixed drink, I don’t even know what’s in it and that will probably freak me out in the morning, but…  _

_ Hey - did you know Ben’s on the football team now? I mean, what the fuck right? When did I get a cool friend? You’re all missing out on being here and having a cool friend now, I mean, me and Stan are still at the bottom of the social hierarchy but man Ben has got it made.  _

_ You should see him he’s really bulked up and…  _

_ Fuck, not now, brain.  _

_ Bad thoughts, bad thoughts. _

_ Hey future Richie, is it a bad thing when you drink so much that you can’t feel your fingertips? This feels like something you would know about?” _

*

He gets drunk on the flight to his Atlanta show, because Atlanta reminds him of Stan and of the funeral that he couldn’t bring himself to go too. 

Of the friend he didn’t remember until it was too late.

The best of them, truly. 

*

“Why did you need that cassette player anyways,” Mike asks, the second they’ve finished placing their orders. 

They’re getting dinner after one of his shows. Mike didn’t go to the show, had plans or something, Richie had assured him that he didn’t miss much and made a promise to invite Mike back to see a show when they actually ended up somewhere close to good. 

Florida is hot and humid and kinda miserable.

And if Richie is being a little honest the fact that he is in Florida and  _ not  _ able to go to DisneyWorld might just be the biggest disappointment of this whole damn tour. 

“Nostalgia.” 

“That’s a big word, buddy, you sure you know what that means?” 

It’s teasing.

A little joke to lighten the mood.

But Richie’s laugh in reply is weak. 

“Rich? You okay?”

No.

He’s not.

He hasn’t been for a while.

And they both know that.

But Richie smiles, the forced on that tries to say  _ everything is okay _ even though they all know that it isn’t. 

“You wanna talk about it?” 

“Not really.”

“Richie.” 

“I just… Fuck, Mike, you don’t get it, you didn’t have to forget everything, but now it’s all coming back in these fucking waves and,” Richie sighs. Runs his hand through his hair making more of a mess of it. The gel his stylist put in his hair before the show sticking to his fingers. “How is it that I spent so long of my life not even knowing that there was something out there to even miss, and now that I know, it hurts so fucking much.” 

Mike’s frowning, looking so much older than their years. “You know, remembering it all this time, it wasn’t that fun either.” 

  
  
  


*

“So I recently discovered these recordings that my childhood friend made for me when we were kids,” Richie starts, the same bit he’s been doing show after show, even though every time it falls flat. 

He has to.

Has to keep this part of Eddie alive somehow. 

“They’re on fucking cassettes,” Richie continues. “And I know I’m dating myself a bit here kids, but in case you missed it, I’m fucking  _ old _ . I don’t always feel old, normally I feel pretty young and shit but then I look in the mirror and I’m like ‘ _ Oh hey, who's that old fucker _ ’? Yeah, it’s me.” 

This part gets more laughs than usual. 

“It took going to twenty different fucking thrift stores to find something that would play these fucking things but - Hey, real question, any of you kids even know what a cassette looks like?” 

  
  


*

_ “Our high school counselor wants me to pick six colleges to apply for, she says that six is a good solid number and that with my grades, I should be able to get into somewhere decent. _

_ One of the school’s she recommended is in Portland and you know my mom would love it if I stayed in Maine for school, and I don’t know if you’re still in Portland or anything, maybe you’ve moved again or maybe you’re going to fucking Rhode Island for college, but I thought for a second that it might be cool if we crossed paths right?  _

_ Could you imagine?  _

_ You’ve probably forgotten about me… _

_ Fuck, why can’t I forget about you?” _

*

“Is this supposed to get easier?”

His therapist, who had been sitting their taking details notes, and really just watching him as he rambled unable to stop himself from talking and unloading each time he ends up in her office, pauses now. As if suddenly for the first time she actually sees him as a person not just: Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier, celebrity, comedian, currently recovering from a mental breakdown. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I don’t know, fuck, like the repression and tragedy, and nightmares and shit, yeah it’s all fucking awful,” Richie says. A hint of desperation in his voice. “But isn’t talking about this shit supposed to make it easier? At some point? Don’t I deserve something not fucking terrible?” 

She frowns.

Observing him still.

“What do you think you deserve, Mr. Tozier?”

“Not fucking this.” 

*

It’s raining.

Because it’s fucking Chicago and it’s always raining.

But fuck the  _ rain  _ makes it worse, some part of his mind that had been locked away for years finally coming back to play, nightmares that haunt him even when his eyes are open and he… 

“You’re on in five, Rich,” his assistant says. 

Chipper and kind. 

So fucking naive.

They’re filming his goddamn Netflix special tonight, the one version of his shitty fucking show that will live on the internet even after he’s long gone. The version that his friends will watch when they’re missing him, just a little, now that they remember him enough to miss him. 

And he…

He can’t fucking breathe. 

He swears over the sound of the crowd and the stage crew that he can still hear the fucking rain.

But he still goes out on that stage.

Still starts the way he always does.

Still says -“So I recently discovered these recordings that my best friend made for me when we were kids.” 

The audience waits.

And somewhere Richie images they aren’t the only ones waiting.

Somewhere… 

“Fuck, I’m pretty sure he was the love of my life.” There’s a gasp somewhere in the audience, silence from a crowd waiting to see what Richie will say next. As if he even knows at this point. “Why couldn’t thirteen year old me have figured that shit out?”

The cameras are still on him.

Recording his every word.

His  _ love confession  _ for the whole universe to hear. 

“Anyways, back to the jokes, but fuck I don’t know if any of you were ever popular in middle school - if you were,  _ fuck you  _ by the way, only monsters are popular in middle school - but as you might have guessed I  _ was  _ not.” 

*

_ “I got into NYU, and they’ve got a really good business school and it’s far enough from my mom that I might be able to come up with an excuse not to go home for the holidays, right, maybe I could blame the snow or some shit, but I…  _

_ Hey, future Richie, if you could end up in New York City and we could accidentally run into each other at a coffee shop or something, that might be nice?  _

_ Just a thought that I just had. _

_ You know, if you were interested.”  _

*

He throws up.

Holds onto the edge of the fancy fucking toilet bowl in this fancy as fuck hotel and - 

Breathes.

Regrets. 

There’s a text from his agent, some bullshit about how the show was good and how he’s trending on twitter, and how the internet loved his improvised love connection and  _ ‘Oh hey who is that guy you were talking about? Maybe we could get a hold of him and…’ _

Richie drinks everything in the hotel’s mini fridge, drinks until his head stops hurting, until his heart stops breaking.

  
  


*

“This is Edward Kaspbrak, you’ve called me at a bad time, please leave a message after the beep.” 

He waits for the beep.

Breathes in and out and says - “I’m in love with you. I’m sure you fucking knew that, but fun fact. I’m pretty sure I’ve been in love with you my entire fucking life.” 

*

Bev grabs a hold of him the second he steps into the baggage claim area. Her arms too tight around him, holding him there, as if she’s afraid he might fall apart at any moment. He’s honestly not sure that he won’t. 

Ben’s somewhere there behind her, actually making sure to track down Richie’s bag. Richie makes a mental note to thank him later, and for now just holds onto Beverly a touch too tight. 

“Fuck, Richie, I’ve missed you,” Bev says, and he can hear the tears in her voice. “We’ve both missed you. How are you doing?” 

“Not good.”

“Oh, baby-”

“How was the yacht?” 

When Bev pulls back from the hug it is to shoot him a disappointed look and he knows she’s going to try to have this conversation again later, but for now she lets it drop and instead talks about the beach and the summer sun and places that Richie would never dream about going to.

And she looks so fucking happy.

Fuck, at least, one of them ended up happy after all of this. 

Beverly deserved it. 

Deserves to smile so much, to be filled with happiness, after everything she’s been through… 

Maybe.

Sometimes.

On his darkest of days.

He wonders now,... If the reason everything is so awful in the aftermath, is because he already had his good times. A decent childhood, a young adulthood in New York City and LA, the darling disaster of the paparazzi. 

*

_ “We’re graduating today. _

_ In about two hours.  _

_ Stan, and Ben, and me…  _

_ Mike’s coming too but he’s home schooled so fuck do people who are home schooled ever get to graduate. I’m not really excited or looking forward to it, I even skipped out on one of Ben’s friend’s parties last night because I just wasn’t… _

_ I know it sounds dumb but a part of me is scared to walk that stage, scared to leave Derry and all of this behind, I won’t be coming back. I know the second I get in my car tomorrow morning to drive to New York that I won’t be coming back here. Not until our fucking high school reunion and probably not even then unless I marry someone hot and cool that is worth bringing back to my hometown to brag about. _

_ Did you ever think about coming back?  _

_ Just to visit for one day? _

_ Like I know Derry is a fucking hellhole and you’re right to stay away, but did you ever think about us?  _

_ Anyways, I hope you got to fucking graduate too, you were always too fucking smart without even trying so you probably did. So congrats, we fucking made it, right?” _

*

“This is Edward Kaspbrak, you’ve called me at a bad time, please leave a message after the beep.”

“It’s my last show tonight,” Richie tells the answering machine. “Last one of this whole fucking tour and for some reason  _ now  _ is when I get fucking nervous. In Boston of all places…”

He knows why.

In theory.

That it’s not to do with his performance tonight.

But of what comes after.

The drive and… 

“I can’t even remember the last time I was nervous? Actually I think… At the Jade, I went to the bathroom and had a whole fucking panic, nobody saw but… It wasn’t because of the fucking clown or any of that shit, Eds, it was because of you. You made me so fucking nervous. How the fuck did I go this long without realizing it?”

*

  
  


“You guys may not have known this unless you fucking googled me, but I actually grew up in New England,” Richie tells his audience. “My parents are Patriots fans and - Hey, don’t cheer for that shit I don’t care that this is Boston - but yeah, fuck, you can imagine about how my childhood went, right?”

That earns him a laugh.

Maybe that’s what all New Englanders have in common, shitty childhoods and mixed feelings about Tom Brady’s deal with the devil. 

“But, back to the point, I recently discovered these recordings that my childhood crush made for me when we were kids,” Richie says. “And shit, I know that sounds embarrassing, but again, what the fuck were we supposed to do in fucking  _ Maine _ as kids.” 

Another laugh.

Maybe Massachusetts has more entertainment than Maine. 

“You know, we actually spent a lot of our time as kids exploring sewers and living under a constant fear of being murdered so you know,  _ classic Maine things _ .” 

  
  


*

He’s supposed to be flying back to LA.

His assistant booked him a flight, plans to meet him at the airport, but Richie…

There’s one last thing he needs to do. 

And he needs to do this one alone.

Even if this means he’ll get the telling off of his life later, even if the rental car company will charge him double for all the miles he’s putting on the car, and his flight is nonrefundable.

Even then.. 

He plugs his phone into the car’s audio system, bypasses his carefully curated Apple Music playlists, for a playlist instead of a few imported recordings. 

“I converted them to fucking MP4s, do you know how difficult that was,” Richie says.

Talking to the empty space beside him.

The empty space where someone else should be, if the universe had just been a little bit kinder to them. 

“Fuck you, Eddie, and your fucking cassettes.”

  
  


*

_ “Hey Richie, I know I said I was done with these recordings, but I can’t sleep and… _

_ I was in love with you. _

_ Since fucking Kindergarten, and I never said anything, and I never…  _

_ It’s too late now. _

_ Four fucking years too late, but I should have kissed you that summer. _

_ You saved my life and I should have fucking kissed you, but I was scared. I’m still scared. Fuck, Richie, I’m so fucking scared.”  _

  
  


*

“We’re sorry, the number that you are trying to reach is no longer in service.” 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

*

_ “Goodbye, future Richie. _

_ Goodbye, future me.  _

_ Goodbye, Derry.”  _

*

He tells himself that he won’t break. 

That he won’t fall apart until the last moment.

That he has to stay strong.

That Eddie would want him to stay strong but… 

In the parking lot of the Derry Medical Center, it all comes crashing down. The engine is still running, the gentle hum of the rental car around him, his eyes so wet that he could barely see through his glasses and… 

He never thought he would come back here.

Couldn’t imagine it.

But now, back in Derry, for the second time in far too recent memory.

The hell hole that he spent half his life in.

Where he loved.

And he lost. 

And where the love that he lost is still… 

He needs to go in there, needs to talk to the nurses that still remember his name, from how many long nights he stayed there waiting for good news, until he couldn’t wait any longer. Until they all had to move on and - 

“Fuck, Eds, you couldn’t have made this any easier for us, could you?” 

  
  


*

_ “Hey, fuck, okay, I think this is recording. I’ve never done a fucking voice memo before, and fuck I haven’t done this in years not since… _

_ Not since I left Derry, but…  _

_ Ahhh, fuck, I should’ve left last night, after dinner we should’ve gotten in our cars and drove the fuck out of Maine. But I’m still here and I’m pretty sure Bill is leading us into a death trap again, because you know classic fucking Bill.  _

_ But just in case, I don’t get to say goodbye, because I get eaten by a fucking clown.  _

_ Whoever accesses my iCloud make sure this recording gets to Richard Tozier.  _

_ If you’re not him this is your cue to pause.  _

_ Unless he’s dead too in which case, all of this is Bill Denbrough’s fault. Or Mike’s for making us all go our own separate ways to find these fucking totems, because yeah, splitting up always ended well.  _

_ But uh, if not…  _

_ Richie, hi, in my house there’s a decoupage box in the back of my closet, with a bunch of recordings from when we were kids. I just remembered them all now, thanks clown induced amnesia… But those recordings are for you. And hopefully you never have to listen to this message, and maybe when we all reunite in a year to celebrate being alive and clownless we can listen to them together and make fun of teenage me and how much I was fucking pining over you but for now… You know, just in case...  _

_ I really hope one day we can listen to them together and laugh about because, fuck, Richie, I really don’t want to die today.”  _


End file.
